Work under Yurik is bleak, but easy. Shaking down merchants for coin. Accosting men on the road. I've not had to shed blood since that day, but Yurik seems satisfied with my work. And as the days go by, a small amount of trust is fostered. The brigands respect powerful fighters, imposing figures. By showing off my physical might, I can appeal to them... and I do.

  I hear loud chatter from across the tavern and spot William, drink in hand, surrounded by a half-circle of brigands. He’s midway through a story, arms flailing dramatically.

  "So there I am, trousers round me ankles, hidin' under the hay wagon while her husband’s shoutin’ murder from the barn roof! Didn’t know I was already halfway through a second pint with his sister the night before!"

  The men burst into laughter, ale sloshing from their mugs.

  "No, I swear it on me father’s grave," William insists, grinning. "Fucker has hated me ever since. Should be grateful his ma is too ugly to be next!"

  They roar again, one of them nearly falling off his bench.

  William, to my mild surprise, takes to the Knives well, despite his aversion to combat. In the cold hours he spins stories that get the men laughing, exaggerating old jobs, poorly conceived dalliances and so on. He doesn't help much, but the men don't seem to mind.

  Across the tavern, a cluster of Knives sit hunched over their drinks, voices low but animated.

  "That hooded boy," one of them mutters, jerking his chin toward the far wall, "the one with the eyes like a wolf? Garren, I think they call 'im."

  "Aye, Garren," another nods. "Slit a man's throat clean on the last job. Didn't hesitate a tick. Wasn't even lookin' at him, just reached out and opened his neck like a purse."

  A third chuckles, shaking his head. "Saw it meself. Poor bastard didn’t even drop his sword, just stood there bleedin' like a hog ‘til he toppled."

  "Kid fights quiet," the first says, tapping the side of his head. "Never talks, never drinks, but gods be damned if he don’t earn his share. Wouldn’t want to meet him in the dark."

  They all nod, grinning over their mugs.

  Luna sits in the shadowed corner, hood still drawn, unmoving. Her eyes flick once in their direction. Her place among the knives seems rather secure as well. Her merciless nature allowing her to perform her tasks to the letter and supposedly, with skill that leaves the brigands she's accompanied with, stunned.

  Our little gang, split up intentionally it seems, probably to stop us from banding too close or forming our own faction, integrates fairly easily. That is, all of us except Hamza.

  A sudden crash splits the air, a table flipping, mugs clattering to the ground. Hamza has his fists buried in the face of a broad-shouldered brigand, driving punch after punch into the man’s jaw.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The room erupts in cheers, mugs raised, some even throwing coin on the floor, gambling on the outcome.

  Hamza is relentless, fury burning in his eyes. The brigand tries to defend himself but is clearly outmatched, staggering back as Hamza closes in for the finishing blow.

  Before he can land it, Yurik appears, grabbing Hamza by the collar and hurling him across the room. He crashes into a bench, snapping it under his weight.

  The brigands howl with laughter.

  Hamza rises slowly, shaking with barely contained rage. He glares at them all, then storms toward the door without a word, slamming it behind him.

  Yurik grunts, eyes locking with mine. "Get him under control. Or I will."

  Fucking hell... why does everyone have to cause me so much trouble?

  Cursing under my breath, I push through the crowd, following Hamza out into the snow.

  I round the corner of the alehouse, breath steaming in the air, and find Hamza standing near the edge of the hill overlooking Redwick, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the distant chimneys and frost-glazed rooftops.

  He hears me approach but doesn’t turn.

  For a long moment, there’s only the sound of falling snow and the wind between us.

  Then, finally, he speaks. "I’m sorry."

  His voice is rough, low.

  "I know I’m making this harder than it has to be. On you, I mean."

  His fists tighten, eyes fixed on the flickering light spilling from the alehouse windows. "I cannot stand them," he mutters, voice thick with accent. "These... Knives. They are... how would you say it... vermin."

  I glance at him. "Is this about your father? Brigands killed him, right?"

  He’s quiet for a moment, then nods slowly. "Partly, but not all. My father... he was not perfect. But he taught me many things. Not just to fight, not just work. He taught me honor. He would say, 'Boy, you must know what is right, and what is wrong. Even if no one else remembers.'"

  His voice tightens. "These men.... They take what they want. They kill who they want. That girl... that child..."

  He looks at me now, eyes burning. "They rape. They steal. They kill. Like beasts. No code, no shame. Monsters wearing the skin of men. And we sit, we laugh, we drink with them. It makes my stomach sick. My soul..."

  He turns away. "Evil. They are evil. They must die."

  Evil... yes. I suppose so.

  "If our task succeeds, they will. Not just a handful, but their organisation entire.”

  Hamza nods, his jaw clenched. “Yes... yes, I know this.”

  He pauses, breath fogging in the cold.

  “The fight... it started because of the job we did. That bastard, the one I was sent with last time. We robbed the merchant. He gave everything. Coins, goods, even the rings on his fingers. He knelt. Said please. And still... still he was killed.”

  His fists curl tighter. “I wanted to kill him right there. My hand was ready to strike the blow. But I did not, for the reason you said. But then in the tavern... he laughs about it. Said the man squealed like a pig. I could not..”

  He looks at me, eyes searching. “Tell me, my friend... is this right? To let evil grow now, if it means we can cut it down later?”

  Looking to me for answers on a question like that....

  What a twisted circumstance.

  What would I know about what's right and wrong?

  I nod. “Yes. It is right. What matters is the results of our efforts. With the Knives gone, less are harmed. That should be your goal.”

  Hamza exhales, long and heavy, then nods slowly. “Then I understand. You are good man, Seven. Good heart. I will try harder. I will... control myself."

  Good heart. Now that’s irony.

  He clasps my shoulder. “But when the day comes... I will join the fight myself and see them gone for good.”

  He nods once and turns, trudging back toward the alehouse with heavy steps, seemingly satisfied with the wisdom I imparted.

  What little there was.